


our indestructible days

by anthrop



Series: Good Intentions Deadfic Extravaganza [9]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, Homunculus Edward Elric, Murder, Possession, Pride!Ed, Promised Day, what if I went completely fucking ham on that idea, what if Kimblee didn't stop Pride from taking Ed's body for his new container
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthrop/pseuds/anthrop
Summary: What a big fuss Wrath made of it, with his story of the man who became a homunculus who became King. A little pain suffered is nothing, when the alternative is death.Edward’s screaming makes this all the sweeter.
Series: Good Intentions Deadfic Extravaganza [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983268
Comments: 29
Kudos: 135
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another deadfic to add to the Good Intentions WIP Fest! Unlike the others I've posted so far I'm going out of my way to tidy this up as it was, as a matter of fact, the very first mangahood fic I tried to tackle after finishing Brotherhood in '17 and BOY does it show. It's definitely a fascinating what-if (as all homunculus fics are), but I simply didn't have a handle on any of the characters yet, let alone a grasp of the 'verse itself. Believe me when I tell you the clean up is necessary, even if this is ultimately a deadfic.
> 
> So long as you remember the Ed vs. Pride PD fight you're good to go on this one. No idea on how many chapters this will end up being as I originally wrote it in one big ol' GDoc and I've only edited ~40% of it. I'll let you know once we're nearing the end of things.
> 
> Title comes from Puscifer's ["Dear Brother."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDQYwYMRMvs)

The air burns against his flaking skin, molten stone growing dark yet still radiating a dangerous heat. Everyone else has gone after Father, the rattle and scrape of transmuted stone fading. It's just the two of them now, the alchemist and the homunculus, and Pride has the upper hand.

“This container won’t last much longer,” he says matter-of-factly, leaping down to stand before the boy. In the dusty sunlight filtering in from above Edward Elric’s eyes shine, catlike and calculating. His breathing is ragged, spit between clenched teeth. He’s pinned by cords of unyielding shadow. If he struggles much harder, Pride might break something.

That thought demands brief consideration. It would be satisfying to take Edward apart bone by brittle bone, to take his pound of flesh for the damage incurred to his Philosopher’s Stone. The left arm would sever easily, if he but sharpened his shadows. Tempting, yes, but ultimately pointless.

“But still,” he continues thoughtfully, a new plan already fallen into place. “Like my father is, you are of Hohenheim's bloodline. We’re virtually brothers. Which means, Edward Elric, I can use your container. Your body belongs to me!”

It is an easy thing to invade the bloodstream, entering through a thin cut on the boy’s cheek. Pride fills every vein and artery with shadows until Edward’s heart is smothered, his blood sludge. He ignores the screams, the uptick in thrashing. This is tricky work, something only achieved twice before, and he hadn't seen either success firsthand. His Stone is too big for such a little cut. He spares a tendril of himself to stab the boy's chest, wrenching open a wound big enough to deposit his core directly against the thrashing heart within. Connective tissue regrows at a breakneck pace, sewing him irrevocably into a body a thousand times more complex than his original container.

With that taken care of Pride lashes out with a snap of white teeth, unfettering the strangled soul. The body still writhes, pain a thing of the flesh rather than the spirit, but there is less resistance after that. If it's lucky, the boy's soul will be absorbed into his Stone, its energy and knowledge assimilated, made useful. Then again it could simply burn up in the transference, an ember caught in a cold wind.

Either way, that which was called Edward Elric will no longer be a concern.

What a big fuss Wrath made of it, with his story of the man who became a homunculus who became King. A little pain suffered is nothing, when the alternative is death.

Edward’s screaming makes this all the sweeter.

Without its contents, his old container collapses to so much dust and an empty pile of clothing, and—

 _—ah_. 

There are memories, kept just beneath the surface of Edward’s dying panic. The mind is easy to parse when the soul is absent. Old night terrors, old horrors. Loneliness. What a childish thing to fear.

A heartbeat. 

Another. 

Waiting—dreading—the body’s rejection of him. 

But it never comes. Barely a shudder of resistance, the only lash of alchemical reaction his Stone instinctively healing injuries the boy had incurred.

The silence after that's finished is a breathless, giddy surprise.

Pride tests his new container carefully, casting an unhappy glance at the automail arm he’s now saddled with. It’s an unpleasant weight, cold and heavy; the leg much the same. It'll take time he doesn't have to adjust to them. How pathetic, that humans must rely on machinery to recover from serious injury. Once he’s regained some of his strength he’ll have to do something about them.

Something shifts within him, a sensation not unlike vertigo stealing his breath. Pride hesitates, wobbling on unfamiliar limbs, but the feeling passes. He smiles. A strong bloodline indeed.

“Fight all you wish,” he says aloud. “I've won _._ ”

Even his voice has changed. His true voice is marred, pitched deeper. Weighed down. _He_ is weighed down by this new container. It's strange. This is all very strange. But he must adjust quickly, for the battle isn’t won yet.

He shakes unfamiliar blond hair from his new container’s eyes, looking up through the hole punched through the many underground floors beneath Central Command. Four thin stone pillars ascend through it, stretching all the way up to the parade grounds. Such a distance. Even the sacrifices shouldn't have been capable of stretching so much material so high without it collapsing. What did they do? What was that array they activated that allowed them to perform alchemy again?

The fight has shifted. He _must_ return to the fray, now that he’s been renewed. Father would—

Father expects him to—

No. 

Not yet. He’s not strong enough to rejoin that fight, yet. His Stone was damaged even more than they’d anticipated when he forced Mustang through the Gate. 

Pride sniffs, tasting the air. There are humans nearby; more souls to consume. He licks his lips and sends his grinning shadows upward.

He is _hungry._

* * *

Major General Armstrong kneels beside the body of Führer King Bradley, _hating_ that she's been sideline for what is surely the most decisive battle Amestris has ever seen. Her men are up there, where that pale creature had ascended only minutes ago atop a pillar of molten stone. Bullets and mortars were near useless against the lesser homunculi; what could their Father be capable of?

Her pulse is still racing, a sour taste settled in her mouth. She knows acutely what it feels like to die, and the experience has left her feeling hollowed out in a way she's unsure of how to voice. She remembers a maelstrom of suffering, countless voices begging for release. It's not something she'd wish on a Drachman, let alone endure again. If not for the Elric brothers' father she'd still be trapped in that hell. They all would be.

Is it fear that still makes her heart pound, or cowardice?

Her lip curls. Fear is justified. Fear is the intelligent reaction. To fear something means you're paying attention. _Cowardice,_ however....

She shakes her head. Four of the human sacrifices—Izumi Curtis, Alphonse Elric, Van Hohenheim, and Mustang—had been afraid, and yet still determined to stop that monster. Even blinded Mustang hadn't hesitated to fight on, utilizing the famed Hawk's Eye to direct his flame attacks. It's both begrudging and gratifying, to realize the man has a stronger spine than she'd thought. 

The fifth, Fullmetal, is still below fighting Pride. There'd been sounds of combat, and then screaming, but it's gone quiet now. The distance and echo distorting the sounds had made it impossible to determine who had been doing the screaming. The lot of them on this level have been keeping a wary eye on the hole in the floor since then. They don't know what that particular homunculus is capable of and the only alchemist left here is the serial killer Scar, and he's in no shape to assist. The idiot boy had better not die while the battle's still on.

She eases to her feet, hissing pain despite her best efforts, and cats her sight on the blue sky above. A single blast of power had punched a hole in this underground labyrinth clear through to the surface. How can they defend against something like _that?_

Bah. Defeatist's talk. The alchemists will do all they can to do just that, and her men will support them. They're Briggs men. They'll do whatever it—

"What the hell?!"

"What _is_ that?!"

She turns sharply toward where the few soldiers who'd insisted on staying behind as a protection detail are gathered. They've all drawn their weapons, aiming at the hole in the floor. Ribbons of _—shadows—_ stretch up from below, splitting open to reveal red eyes and white jaws.

 _Damn!_ And here she'd thought Fullmetal had been left behind to fight the homunculus alone for good reason! Was the boy really so useless as to die now?

"PREPARE YOURSELVES!" She bellows, striding toward the lashing shadows. A glance is all she needs to know it would be futile to try and keep distance in a room as small as this. Better to be with her men. She may have lost the use of her sword arm but this is a fight she will not _—cannot—_ leave for her men to fight alone. "Fire at Selim Bradley the moment he shows himself!"

The red eyes narrow. The white jaws grin. Grating laughter echoes off of the stone walls. "That container has been discarded, Major General," the mouths all say in the same mocking voice. "But are you really going to risk injuring _this_ body?"

From out of the depths a figure rises, lifted up on tendrils of shadow to step lightly onto the rubble-strewn floor. Her men curse, guns dipping. Somewhere behind her Mr. Curtis and the frog chimera inhale sharply. She can't blame any of them.

The grinning boy with living shadows curling at his boots is Fullmetal.

"Edward," Izumi's husband says, hushed. The boy pays him no mind, eyes flat and cold as coins.

"It was wise of you to stay behind," Fullmetal—no, _Pride—_ says, still smiling. The shadows stretch and curl, painting the room in streaks of black. "Your contributions to the war effort are greatly appreciated."

Too late, she understands what he means to do. "No! Don't you dare—!"

The shadows strike, and her men begin to scream.

* * *

"Edward Elric."

His name whispered out of the murk. A voice calling him awake. He can't pinpoint where it's coming from. Everything else is so _loud._ There are so many people nearby, all of them screaming, all of them begging to die. Everything is so red.

"Fullmetal."

He tries to put a name to the voice. He knows it. Doesn't he know it?

Fraying. He's being... stretched. Pulled apart. Losing his sense of self.

He's losing himself.

"Surely you're not going to roll over as easily as that, are you?"

He... he _knows_ this voice.

A pinpoint of white, searing amongst all this writhing red. The shape of a man comes into focus. White clothes, long dark hair, the wide eyes of a madman, tattoos on his outstretched palms.

_"K...Kim...blee...?"_

The man smiles. "Ah, so you are still in there. Good, very good."

_"Where... what is... this...?"_

"We've both become a part of Pride's Philosopher's Stone now. Two souls clinging to our individuality amidst a howling mob of anguish." Kimblee rocks back on his heels, throwing out his hands. His face is a picture of bliss. "Isn't it exquisite?"

He looks away, out at the writhing, the screaming. Nothing but gaping mouths and dark eye sockets everywhere he looks, the barest suggestions of human shapes. Souls. How many died to make this Stone? _"It's—loud. No. No, this. This isn't. This isn't what I...."_

It's getting so hard to _think._

Kimblee looks almost disappointed now. "Tell me, Edward Elric. Are you truly so weak as this? Unraveling at the first glimpse of something beyond your control?"

He looks down at himself. Two arms, two legs. No automail pulling insistently at his bones. Of course not. He's only a soul, nearly as red as the others twisting all around him. He's inside a Philosopher's Stone, which makes him only one more lost soul. Wisps of red peel from his limbs, chafed and scraped away by the chaos pushing and pulling at him from all sides. He's falling apart. Losing himself. Soon he'll be nothing but babbling energy, regenerative power for the homunculus he's become a part of. For... for....

**_"Pride."_ **

Kimblee raises one curious eyebrow. "That's right."

 _"Where—_ Where is he?"

"A bit preoccupied eating to overhear this conversation, if that's your concern."

He—Edward, he's Ed, gotta stay focused, he can't slip again, his name is _Edward—_ strains, struggling to remember what happened. How he came to be like this. He was.... There had been.... Pride. Selim had been badly—injured? damaged?—after forcing the Colonel through the Gate. His container was failing. He'd pinned Ed down—pain, it had _hurt—_ and declared that Ed would be... that Ed's _body_ would be....

Ed's just a soul now. He doesn't have a body, no skin to prickle and no breath to catch, but a chill runs through him all the same. "He. He took my body. He made me his new container. Didn't he?"

"That's right."

No matter where Ed looks it's all souls, no glimpse of what's going on outside this Stone. Ling—and Greed, for that matter—have always had a good idea of what was going on when the other one had been in control of Ling's body. How did they—

Hold on.

Ed looks back at Kimblee, who just smiles pleasantly back. Eating. Pride can't hear them right now because he's eating. The hell does _that_ mean?

"I can't _see,"_ Ed snaps, shoving at a soul that's drifted uncomfortably close. His hand is paler, more defined than it was before. He's got a good grip on himself again. He really should've paid more attention when Ling talked about the meditation shit he did while Greed was refusing to share. _"Ugh._ Where is he? What's he doing, Kimblee?"

Kimblee chuckles and waves his hand. The tempest of screaming parts like a theater curtain; bright light spills in that leaves Ed blinking and shading his eyes. He goes to it anyway. He has to know what Kimblee meant—

His sight adjusts, and he's looking at a bloodbath.

There's red sprayed across the near wall, splashed along the floor, drips and splatters and scraps of tattered uniforms everywhere he looks. A single soldier is in view, firing wildly right at Ed only to have the bullets deflected by a shadow pitted with familiar eyes and bloodstained fangs. The gun in the soldier's hands clicks, the clip emptied, and the shadow cuts him down. Ed can hear the brutal crunch of bone, the muted spurt of spilled blood, the ragged tearing of meat. He hears someone laughing. His voice. His stolen voice multiplied weirdly through the shadow mouths as Selim's had been. 

Ed hollers, twisting away, but Kimblee's white hands hold him fast. The man's voice roars out, ragged with terrible glee. _"Don't_ avert your eyes! _Don't_ look away! That's _your_ body out there, cutting those men down. Take credit for the destruction _your_ hands have wrought!"

 _"NO! NO!_ That's not _—it's not me—_ get the fuck _off—_ I don't _want_ this!"

"Then what are you going to do about it?!"

 _"—no, no, I don't—_ I—w-what?"

Once Ed's stopped struggling Kimblee all but drops him, still grinning from ear to ear. "I thought about interfering, when Pride first tried to take your body for himself."

_"What?"_

"I'm perfectly content in here, but he decided to throw away his honor as a homunculus. So _proud_ to be what he is, that very quality he was named for, but the moment he found himself in grave danger he sought to escape into the body of a human." Kimblee snarls. "He's _pathetic._ A _disgrace."_

Ed watches his body's left hand rise, pointing at—Major General Armstrong? Her face is a mask of blood, and the rest of her isn't much better. Sig's beside her, one arm slick and hanging heavily, the other supporting Scar who looks like he narrowly escaped a meat grinder. Behind them he can just glimpse Jerso in his frog form, lying so still it's impossible to tell if he's still breathing. The window or whatever out into the real world flickers as—fuck—as _Pride_ looks at another soldier spring out from behind cover. He empties his clip in record time, unerringly aimed at Ed's chest. Do any of the bullets hit? Do they hurt? The soldier's cradling his rifle strangely, one hand clumsily wrapped in bloodstained cloth. 

"Why?" Ed asks, weary. A shadow arcs out, bristling with teeth, and bites through the man. He goes down with a bizarrely muted scream and another spray of blood. "Why didn't you stop him? This—this wouldn't be happening if you'd _stopped_ him!"

Kimblee regards him, eyes narrowed, face unreadable. "Führer Bradley is a homunculus," he says conversationally. "And Greed. His vessel is human as well, isn't it?"

Outside, sounds of crunching, splattering, _chewing._ Ed watches a clean white uniform stain almost black with gore. "Yeah? So what?"

"I started to think a little, that's what." Another little chuckle. Fuck, this guy really is crazy. He's _enjoying_ this. "The homunculi make such a fuss out of being better than humans. More evolved, _above_ our petty fears and desires. They're so proud to be the puppeteers of this country, the hands on our yokes as they've guided us to this Promised day."

Ed watches the shadows finish off the soldier, nothing but a smear of blood and a couple glistening pieces of meat left behind. The window flickers again as Pride turns _his_ head to regard the last of the survivors.

"It's funny," Kimblee says. "For how much they talk, they so rarely deliver on their promises. So I ask you, Edward Elric. What are you going to do now?"

The General. Sig. Jerso. Scar. They're going to die. Pride's going to kill them. For all Ed knows they might think he _agreed_ to let Pride take his body.

He looks at his hands. He's nearly himself again, or at least as nearly like himself as he can be without his body. He's got two arms here. Two legs too. An arm and a leg, and a body, and the whole damn country on top of it now. He's made way too many promises to fail here.

Ed sets his jaw and leaps out into the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for italics hell and bodily trauma, but honestly if you've been with me a while you know that's really all I'm ever about.

Sig's been in over his head since the beginning. He's just a butcher when it comes down to it; a man content with his lot before all this madness came and threatened all of it. Izumi now, she's the one meant for greatness, for fighting monsters, for saving the world. It's a wonder every day that someone as incredible as her loves him.

Izumi. God, he hopes she makes it through this. It's starting to look like he won't.

It's just four of them left now. The General, the Ishvalan, the chimera, and him. Scar and Jerso are too injured to stand, let alone fight, and Armstrong's only on her feet out of sheer stubbornness. He's the least hurt of all of them, but what can he do against this monster? Even if he could get close he doesn't think he could bring himself to lay a hand on it, considering....

This thing, this homunculus, has taken _control_ of Ed somehow. It's wearing him like an ill-fitting coat. Ed's automail seems to be giving it some trouble; the arm dangles like an afterthought, the leg drags when he tries to walk. Maybe that's why Ed—Ed's body—hasn't moved far from the hole in the floor. Not that it needs to, with the range these shadow-mouths have. It could have killed them all in seconds, but it's been _toying_ with them so far. It's picked off the armed soldiers like they were ants to be crushed idly underfoot, laughing with Ed's laugh. Now it's finished with them and turned Ed's eyes on the last of them. 

Even if there weren't long teeth and slitted eyes wrapped up in the shadows at its feet, Sig would know at once Ed's not the one in control anymore. That cold smirk, his narrowed eyes, the way he licks his lips whenever those shadows score a hit. Is Ed even in there still? Hopefully not. Hopefully Ed is gone, dead or buried too deep to see what' s happened. He's a good kid. He doesn't need to see this.

Sig doesn't understand how this—whatever _this_ is—happened. He's in over his head. Izumi would know what to do, but she's not here. They're on their own.

Armstrong curses. Sig risks a glance at her. She's got her uninjured hand to a new stain at her side. He has no idea when that happened. "Guns are _useless,"_ she snarls. "We've got nothing! Unarmed, wounded, and he's just _standing_ there with that smug look on that brat's face!"

"He's toying with us," Scar rasps, wiping blood from his face with a shaking hand.

"Of course he's toying with," she retorts. "That arrogant creature was named well."

Behind them Jerso manages a breath of wheezy laughter. "Never _—hh—_ thought it'd be _—hggkh—_ be like this, when I went."

Sig grimaces. He's never liked that fatalistic talk, heard too much of it from Izumi in those first couple of years after she'd tried to bring their baby back. He opens his mouth to try and offer some small kindness before the end—he hates that kind of talk, but he knows what the end of the line looks like—but he's interrupted by an inhaled shriek. He looks sharply at the homunculus in time to see the shadows writhe like the legs of an overturned beetle, its many eyes lolling and many mouths contorting. Ed's body claps both hands over its mouth as it—he?—staggers. _"Nngh—n-no._ **_No!_ ** _What the hell did you do?!"_

Armstrong leans forward, eyes wide. "Is that—? Fullmetal!"

Ed, it _has_ to be Ed—twitches badly at the sharp ring of her voice off the concrete. His eyes bulge over his hands as he looks at them, hunched as if he's in pain. The shadows at his feet ripple like disturbed water. "I-I _—no_ , don't _—hhgkh—"_

"Don't let him grab hold of you!" Armstrong barks, but makes that awful strangled shriek again and the shadows flare and writhe in a new pattern, gouging concrete and metal alike. Ed's face contorts into something like cold fury, hands falling to his sides. "How _dare_ you?!" He—the homunculus—demands. "Your body is mine! Your soul is forfeit! Return to my Stone before I—ah!"

Eyes and teeth lash, shrinking back from Sig and the others. "Get _—out,"_ Ed gasps. _"Get_ ** _—out—_** _of me._ I don't _—nngh!"_

_"Be silent, human!"_

"I—won't _let_ you—hurt anyone else _—aghh!"_

_"What can you do to stop me?!"_

Back and forth, shadows spasming, eyes and teeth winking in and out of existence. Ed's hanging on by a fraying thread, and there's nothing Sig can do to help him. He can't get any closer, not with the way those shadows so erratic. He's a bystander. He can only watch and hope Ed comes out on top. "Come on, Ed!" He calls out, feeling foolish, but it seems to help even if only a little. Ed's hands crawl up and squeeze his skull, clinging even when it's clearly Pride doing the shouting.

"Keep you _—here—_ won't let you _hurt_ them—"

 _"Please,_ you can hardly stomach your own body now—"

"—s-shut up—"

"Do _—ah!_ Do my abilities disagree with you, Edwa—"

"I said **_shut up!"_ **

Ed claps and presses both hands to his chest. Red alchemical light splashes across his body, scattering the shadows to scraps and dust. Pride steals his body back in time to be the one to scream.

 _"Aaugh!_ What do you think you're doing?!"

Ed sways, laughing weakly. "I. I'll _burn_ you out, Pride. From the in-inside out. If I have to."

 _"No!"_ Pride's flat eyes fall on Sig and the others. _"I'll kill them!"_

"Hahaha! You were already gonna do that! Find a new threat!" Ed claps his hands again, but Pride wrestles back in control before he can do whatever alchemical attack he did before. The red light arcs like a lightning strike from his outflung hands. Deep cracks fracture the ceiling where it strikes. Pipes burst, spitting steam and an oily fluid. One of them screams again; it's impossible to tell who.

Armstrong curses again. "They're going to bring this whole floor down on us if we don't do something! Scar, you're the only alchemist here—do something!"

Scar clears his throat, eyes never leaving Ed. "I don't have the strength to fight either of them."

"A door then," Sig suggests. "Can you make us an exit?"

Scar's eyes flicker to him in surprise, then back to Ed. "You'd leave the boy behind?"

Sig exhales, suddenly exhausted. If they survive this Izumi's going to kill him. "We're in no position to fight something like that. Ed's strong. He'll beat that thing, or he'll drag the fight out long enough for the others to help him finish it off."

Jerso coughs wetly, struggling to sit up. "You can't—Elric, he needs help—"

But Scar shifts in Sig's grip. "You're certain."

"It's the only option," he replies. "We'll just get in the way. If Ed were to hurt any of us by accident he'd never forgive himself."

"Then—"

 **_"You're just a human!"_ ** Pride shrieks, a dozen mouths distorting Ed's hoarse voice. _"You're_ **_weak!_ ** _What's grounding you here?!"_

Teeth scythe dangerously close, carving out a deep half-moon shape in the wall not a foot from Armstrong's head. She doesn't so much as flinch, baring her own teeth at one baleful red eye glaring down at them.

"I don't retreat from the battlefield," she bites out. "And I'm not the sort who would leave a child to fight in my stead!"

Red light lances across the ground, leaps up the wall behind them, and transmutes a roughshod door in the blink of an eye. _"Get out of here,"_ Ed snaps out. Around him shadows blister and burst, teeth nearly as long as he's tall fencing him in. "This isn't your fight, General! **_Go!"_ **

"Ed," Jerso calls out, but Ed reels back, choking. His automail arm falls limp as his face twists. Pride staggers forward, shadows clawing toward them. 

"The _General_ is more than welcome to try and cut me down," he sneers. "If she's as skilled as they say, she'll only succeed in killing **_you_ **faster—"

 _"Shut up,"_ Ed cuts in, automail hand springing to life to cover his eyes. "Shut up, get out, get out of here, **_get fucking out—"_ **

"Come on," Sig mutters, lugging Scar towards the door. "General, can you help—"

 **_"DAMN_ ** _this dead weight!"_ Pride rages. "You've _lost._ Now give me control!" 

Sig looks over his shoulder to see Pride lunging after them, but his left leg—Ed's automail leg—remains stubbornly fixed. His many eyes swivel back to glare at Ed's body. _"Let_ **_GO,_ ** _Fullmetal!"_

"Not on your life!"

"We need to leave," Scar rasps. _"Now."_

"That's _—my_ leg," Ed grinds out, and for the first time he sounds like himself again. None of the shadow mouths echo him, twisting his words. It's just a teenager's voice, worn out and ragged, but human. "That's _mine._ It was made for _me,_ and you can't have it!"

"Ed," Sig calls out, hoping—

—but it's Pride who meets his eyes.

"Is that so?" The homunculus asks, all his outrage suddenly, terribly absent. And without warning a mouth jumps from the floor to bite cleanly through Ed's left thigh.

 _"ED!"_ Sig bellows, barely hearing Armstrong and Jerso shouting too over the sound of Ed's punctured scream. The automail clatters to the floor, a ring of severed muscle glimpsed before shadows swallow it. Ed unbalances. There's a horrible sound, flat and wet, as Ed's new stump strikes the concrete. He stiffens like he's grabbed a livewire, another horrible gasp feathered between his teeth, before his eyes roll back in his head. He collapses, and as if a switch has been flipped the shadows vanish completely.

Silence perches, all of them too stunned to move. Unconscious, Sig thinks desperately. Ed's unconscious. Not dead yet. He's not bleeding that fast. If he's quick he might have time to stop the bleeding before the shadows come back. He makes to move but Scar digs in his heels with a growl.

"We need to leave," he repeats.

"He's going to _die."_

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Armstrong says bitterly. She's barely spoken before red light sears across the wound. Sig, for all that he's already seen this trick before, finds himself struck mute with astonishment as he watches bone and muscle and skin knit themselves together out of nothing. A thigh, a knee, shin and calf, ankle and foot, five splayed toes. A _leg,_ whole and hale, spun from nothing but light in a matter of seconds.

The shadow beneath Ed's prone body turns ink-dark, sprouting narrowed eyes and a thin grimace. Ed's body sits up a moment later, shaking his fraying braid out of the way. "Well," Pride says, sounding bored. "That seems to have quieted him for now." He leans back on Ed's hands and lifts the new leg to inspect it. The eyes of his shadows remain fixed on the four of them.

"Fuck," Jerso spits out weakly, hissing as Armstrong hauls him to his feet. "Y-you're a monster. You coulda _killed_ him."

Pride laughs with Ed's voice, none of his other mouths joining in. It's somehow worse, to hear Ed's voice pitched wrong on its own. Too high, too malicious. "Edward Elric's immortal now," he says as he stands up, brushing himself off. "So long as I'm in his body, anyway. Now, where were we—"

Rumbling from above cuts him off, sudden and severe enough to make all of them nearly lose their footing. The sunlight above turns a stark crimson, brighter, and brighter, and blinding—

Sig falls back to the door, Scar scrabbling for the push handle. He hears the others shouting, and Pride screaming with Ed's voice as if the light alone hurts him—

They make a break for it, limping down some new unlit hall as the rumbling slowly fades. The homunculus doesn't follow them. In over his head, he thinks again, ignoring the wet heat running down his arm, Scar's wet gasps in his ear. Armstrong and Jerso aren't far behind, their footsteps heavy. In over his head. They just have to get out of here. Izumi will know what to do. She went up there. She was up there when that light went off. Let her live. Let her make it out of this alive.

She'll know what to do about Ed.


	3. Chapter 3

Stubborn child! Tenacious little brat!

Pride _seethes_ as he carries his new container up through another ruined, empty floor of Father's home, teeth gnashing at stone and metal. How could one inconsequential human soul cling so stubbornly to its body? Especially after being absorbed into his Philosopher's Stone?

It's lucky the little alchemist is such a mad acrobat, otherwise Pride wouldn't have been able to climb to the surface as quickly as he has, even with his shadows to assist. There's only a floor left between him and the parade field. The light from Father's attack has faded now, but he's still wary of jumping out without having a better idea of the situation out there. The light alone hadn't been enough to damage his Stone, but it had been an altogether painful experience for his true form.

A part of him hates to let those survivors scurry off—all those long years guarding Sloth's tunnel, no doubt—but now isn't the time to hunt down vermin. His Stone has only barely stabilized thanks to those few soldiers he'd consumed. He was able to grow this container a new leg without much strain, but he doubts he'd be much good in a proper fight. He's made the mistake of underestimating humans before. It's not a mistake he's keen on repeating.

He slims his shadows to a few cautious coils, tasting the air. Even up here he can smell the living humans below, soaked in blood and snaking away from the epicenter of things. They could reappear virtually anywhere in Central but he doubts they'll go that far, not with how injured they are. Aside from them there's nothing but corpses down there, which won't do him any good. Thanks to absorbing Gluttony he finds the meat delicious, yes, but it's _souls_ he needs. 

Aboveground is a far different story. He sniffs again and can't help but smirk. There's dozens—no, _hundreds_ of humans gathering up there, rushing around with their hearts racing and sweat salting their warm skin. He smells too, all the silly little guns they're hauling around in some vain hope of stopping Father.

Pride licks his lips, eager now. They want a fight, do they? He may be weak, but he thinks he can at least provide Father a distraction.

He's careful to keep his container out of sight as he peers over the last crumbling edge, curling tendrils into the air and squinting in the brightening daylight. Behind him Central Command is in ruins, as if some enormous hand had come along and taken a scoop out of it. He can smell only a handful of living humans there, most of them bloody and bruised and terrified. Before him a triangular stretch of the parade field is charred black, heat to sting the razor edges of him still rising from it. Greasy smoke smothers the air, reducing visibility to a frustrating few feet. From here he can only make out the woman sacrifice, sprawled nearby and barely conscious. He can smell her pain, the new bruises and welling blood, but it's nothing serious. There's no urgent spike of adrenaline in her blood, no sour snap of broken bone nor the damp heat of exposed organs. She'll live, for now.

The wind shifts. He narrows his eyes, sniffing, and finds the shredded remains of Alphonse Elric's armor a little further off. Beside it is the troublesome Xingese girl, weeping loudly. Has the younger Elric's blood seal broken? Either way, he won't be taking part in this fight any longer, not in the shape he's in.

The woman sacrifice—Izumi, wasn't it?—wakes, coughing roughly. "H-Hohenheim," she forces out, and as if summoned by her voice Father appears before her, so quickly that neither Pride’s eyes nor nose sensed him move. A strong hand grabs Van Hohenheim out of the dust that had obscured him as well, knocking him aside like so much refuse. He lands in a heap some distance off. Pride pays his piteous groaning no mind, relieved to see that Father still has God's power within him.

"Father!" He cries, springing out into the open to present himself. Izumi twitches nearby, straining to see him over her bloodied shoulder.

"You're first," Father says, raising his hand. Red light arcs between his fingertips. Too late, Pride realizes what he means to do—

_Pain_ riots through his container. All his thoughts collapse to panicked static. His newly acquired lungs and heart _seize,_ his every muscle _spasms_ and his every joint _locks._ He would scream if he could because to have true flesh is to be set on _fire._ He'd thought the leg bad before, but he'd retreated into his Stone at the first white-hot shock of hurt and here he's _pinned_ in place, nerves _flayed,_ choking on ash—he _can't,_ he _isn't,_ how is it possible to— _hurt—_ so completely? Defense—he—he must _defend_ against—shadows—his self—all gone, he can't _think,_ he can't—

_Father is going to kill him—_

A gunshot cracks in the distance, and a wound appears in a fizzle of come-and-go alchemical light at Father's temple. Father's concentration breaks. Pride nearly falls on all fours, sucking in dirty air with a relief that unmoors him. He doesn't hesitate, falling back on the instincts of this taken flesh. His hammering heart says _run,_ so he runs. He sprints through the thinning smoke, wanting distance, _needing_ time to get his bearings, needing to understand why Father just tried to kill him—

He ducks behind some heap of rubble near Central Command's wall, pressing his spine against it and shutting his eyes against the acrid sting. He's—he's _panicking._ He is, isn't he? He's _never_ one to panic. He is first of the homunculi, oldest and strongest and cleverest. He won't _—can't—_ be cowed so easily as this. Even if—even if it was Father that came so close to—

He is one part of a greater whole. This is something he's always known. But it's never occurred to him that Father might one day want that part _back._

No. Never mind that. Father had his reasons. He always does. Surely Father only intended to siphon Fullmetal's soul away, to tear the stubborn child out so Pride could have unfettered control over this container—

_[Coward.]_

Pride freezes—still panting for breath, _damn_ this flesh—and glares with several pairs of eyes. That voice. It _shouldn't_ be possible, and _yet—_ "Just how many of you damned _insects_ are clinging to sentience within my stone?!"

_[Oh, it's just Fullmetal and myself in here, and he's not doing too well at the moment.]_ Kimblee's laughter _grates_ for all that it's not, technically, real. _[He doesn't enjoy the company as much as I do.]_

In the distance Pride can hear-smell humans shouting, soldiers making a perimeter in some feeble-minded attempt at hemming Father in, barking out nonsensical orders to one another over the bustle and clatter of all their useless weaponry. A man shouts over a megaphone that Fullmetal is not to be confused with Father, which is a relief and in some small way, terribly funny. He watches the clamor with his container's eyes, peering carefully around the crumbling edge of what might have been a bit of the east wing. If he focuses he thinks he can very nearly feel the pinpoints of solidity within his Stone, Kimblee as fine and bright as a needle, Fullmetal a stolid lump fumbling his way back to consciousness at a snail's pace. "I suppose you'll be wanting to fight me for control over this body next?"

_[Oh no, not at all. It'd be a poor fit, I think. And besides, I already have a front row seat to the glorious battle going on right now. Just listen to it!]_

The attacks are certainly concussive, if nothing else. From his position on the field it only looks like the soldiers are wasting a great deal of ammunition for nothing; Father's glimmering shield is protecting him even from the heat and dust of the blasts. Some soldier down there belts out a command to take cover and scarcely a moment later a gout of flame rushes down the same charred path as Father's earlier attack to engulf the majority of the parade ground in an inferno. It seems that despite his newfound blindness the Flame Alchemist remains unwilling to sit idly by while there's murder and mayhem to sow. Still, it'll take more than that to slow Father down now.

"They stand no chance against him," he mutters aloud. The plan has fallen apart, perhaps disastrously so, but Father will win. It's only a matter of time.

_[No chance?]_ Kimblee asks, pausing when another gout of flame explodes across the parade field. This one Father catches as easily as a child's toy and sends it right back. Even after that display, amusement curls Kimblee's voice. Infuriating creature. _[You say there's no chance, that you homunculi are so much better than humans, but what's Greed without his human vessel? What are_ **_you?]_ **

_"I_ am Pride the Arro—"

_[Just the two of you left now, and that only thanks to the humans you've attached yourselves to. You claim to be higher life forms, yet you're really nothing more than_ **_parasites._ ** _How_ **_disappointing.]_ **

"I _won't_ die here! Whatever the cost, I refuse to die today!"

_[And if your Father willed it otherwise?]_

He flinches, and loathes this treacherous body all the more.

_[He seemed eager enough to kill you a moment ago,]_ Kimblee goes on cheerfully, _[Yet you turned tail and ran away the second you could. You were named for your dignity as much as your arrogance, yet all you've proven today is that you're a hypocrite and a_ **_coward.]_ **

_"BE SILENT, KIMBLEE!"_

_[Mmph.]_ The Fullmetal lump shifts within his Stone, waking up properly. Pride very nearly throws his hands up in exasperation. _[Ah, hell. That_ **_hurt._ ** _What happened?]_

_[Welcome back, Edward. I wasn't sure you'd be joining us again.]_

Pride curls his mouth irritably, digs dirty nails into the stone's crumbling edge. The automail arm only twitches at his side, still stubbornly resistant to his will. "How many times must I put you in your place until you _stay_ there?"

_[Ha. At least one more. Where are we?]_

Pride has no chance to reply before his control is tugged away from him. Edward Elric wavers, bracing himself with both hands against the same stretch of scorched stone. Pride's connection to the container and all its startling sensations remains; a sour tang of nausea burns their shared throat, dizziness makes their pulse pound in their ears, a line of sweat down their spine makes them shiver. Edward directs their eyes about the parade field and back to Central Command, taking in the splendor of Father's power. Their ears ache with the ceaseless crack and boom of gunfire.

"Holy _shit,_ Edward breathes.

With a growl of displeasure Pride pushes back and retakes control. The boy's too stunned to put up more than a token resistance, one that's easily brushed aside. Pride smiles, licking the new configuration of his teeth. "Do you understand now? Do you see what Father is capable of, despite all your little tricks? Are you still so certain you'll win?"

Kimblee whispers, so quietly that Edward seems not to hear, _[Are you?]_

_[Of course I am,]_ Edward retorts, and while he's unable to wrestle control of his body back he does manage a few of the eyes circling at their feet. Their shared vision wobbles and blurs, and Edward grumbles. _[Jeez, how can you stand this? I think I'm gonna puke.]_

"Then _stop_ it."

_[Nah.]_ Their shadow twitches, an inelegant lurch that nevertheless forces one of their eyes to loll, and in just such a way that it glimpses Edward's bare left foot. Through their mutable connection of his Stone Pride feels the stuttering evolution of Edward's reaction—dumbfounded, denying, horrified, _furious._ Their mouth opens against his will and Edward's snarl froths out. "My—my _leg._ It's—the automail—it's _gone._ You—you son of a _bitch!_ You really _cut it off?!"_

_[It was slowing me down,]_ Pride replies calmly, content for the moment to take refuge in his Stone. It almost feels as he did in his Selim container this way; placid, unflappable, controlled. _[You're welcome, by the way. I saved you the trouble of trying to get back the original one.]_

"Wh—That's not the point! _Al and I_ made a _promise!_ After _we found_ out the _cost_ of making a Philosopher's Stone we _promised_ not to use one for ourselves! _We never wanted_ to be so _selfish_ as to use another life to fix _our mistake! Al and I—we—I didn't...."_

Edward's inhale is a shaky mess. He sways again, gritting his teeth. It seems he has a new tendency to speak through more than one mouth if he lets his anger get the better of him. How interesting. Pride certainly hadn't manifested one of the three thin mouths in their shadow. Edward bends at their waist to brush their left hand across their new knee cap, draws a line down their shin, splays their toes on the sun-warmed concrete. Pride feels each sensation like a static shock, which isn't half so bizarre as the curdled snatches of Edward's thoughts he absorbs secondhand. _Nerve damage—phantom pain in the night—gone, it's gone, he shouldn't feel anything because it's gone—Granny said the cold would be harder on him—cold night spent lying awake, teeth gritted, muscles aching—no amount of massaging around the ports ever helped—Al's metallic voice, "Did you dream about Mom again—"_

Pride retreats deeper into his Stone, startled by how _real_ that felt. The ever-groaning souls inside him keep their distance from his toothsome shape—all but Kimblee, who sidles up to him with an overly familiar grin. 

Outside, Edward reins in his anger enough to ask, "Where's Alphonse?"

_[In pieces,]_ he replies sullenly, and finds base satisfaction in the diminished jolt of panic he feels from the boy. _[The Xingese girl has been using what's left of his armor as a shield—]_

Red light crackles in their shared vision and a feeling not unlike a brand _burns_ his Philosopher's Stone. He writhes within and without, as much from shock as from pain. When he can see clearly again Edward's braced against the rubble, breathing raggedly. "Shut up," he growls.

_[You're so willing to be free of me you'll hurt yourself to do it?]_ Pride marvels. 

_"Shut_ **_up,"_ **Edward repeats, a mouth splitting in their shadow to hiss the same. "You too, _Kimblee."_

_[I didn't say anything.]_

"I can _feel_ how much you're enjoying this." He spits, wiping their mouth with the back of his automail hand, then begins a clumsy half-jog back into the thick of things. There's no telling if it's the new leg or their shadow nipping at their heels giving him more trouble.

_[Where are you going?]_ Pride demands. _[What do you intend to do?]_

"I'm gonna find Al, then I'm gonna make that _bastard pay."_

_[If you confront him, Father will take my Stone for sure!]_

**_"Good._ **Let him take care of you for me!"

_[He'll kill you too!]_

"I don't care!" Edward picks up speed, keeping low and favoring their new leg. When Pride opens a train of eyes in their shadow Edward trips, slapping a hand over their container's eyes with a curse. Nausea tongues his Stone, altogether unpleasant. "I gotta make sure Al's okay!"

**_[Damn you!]_ **For all that he tries to wrest back control Edward just hangs on to himself harder. Pride rages, scattering souls like gravel beneath the wild sweep of his awareness. Edward snarls back and picks up speed.

_[Such dedication!]_ Kimblee exults, a white sore in his Stone. _[Such drive! He really is an admirable creature, isn't? Put a fire under him and he'll burn himself gladly for the chance to keep those he cares for out of it!]_

_[Be quiet!]_

Kimblee calms, raising one unimpressed eyebrow. _[Why should I listen to you? A pitiful homunculus who couldn't keep a single human under heel?]_

Pride _seethes._


	4. Chapter 4

Mei's gotten blood on the splintered ruin of his chest. Her small hands trace the rough edges of his damage with soft and hurting sounds. Alphonse lifts one hand to pass a thumb across her eyebrow, smearing the cut there before it can spill into her eye.

"I'll be okay," he assures her. His body might be broken again, but that's nothing to be worried about. Pain has been an absence in him for a long time now, and here she is spilling over with it.

"Lay still!" She admonishes, then whimpers. She's small, smaller than Ed was when he was her age. She must have bones like a songbird’s; easily broken. "Y-you're going to fall apart even more if you aren't careful!"

"I'll be okay," he repeats. Maybe she'll hear him this time. "You need to get out of here. You're too hurt to fight anymore."

"So are you!"

He's not hurt, not really, and as long as the blood seal isn't damaged he'll be safe laying here until the battle's over. He's not sure if there's enough of him left for Ed to transmute without risk, but that's a concern for later. His armor rings with the furious rattle of nearby gunfire, the thunderous booming of mortars. Mei Chang is small and wholly human, and this isn't her fight at all.

"I'll be okay," he repeats again. There's nothing else he can tell her. He's always okay.

"If we're careful, Xiao Mei and I can—"

"Stop," he interrupts, not unkindly. "You're hurt and I don't have legs right now. I'm too big for you to carry."

Her dark eyes are shiny with pain but she still manages an impressive _harrumph!_ "You doubt the strength of the Chang princess? I'll have to prove you wrong on the honor of _—oh!"_

"What?" She's gone rigid and breathless, hunching over him as she looks at something further off than he can strain to see. "What's wrong?"

"There... there's three of them again," she whispers. "Three homunculi."

"But—" Father's one of them, obviously. And Greed, him and Ling are out there fighting too. The third though, that can only be—

"It's definitely Pride," Mei confirms. She's slipped a hand into her sash, no doubt readying a fresh fistful of knives. Just in case. "But I can't see him anywhere. Can you?"

"No." The last place Al saw him was down in Father's throne room, a ribbon of shadow wrapped brutally tight around Ed's left arm. He strains to sit up, to get a better look, to _see—_ "My brother—do you see him? Is he okay? Mei, please—"

"He's fine! Please don't exert yourself!" Her small hands touch his shoulder, trying to force him down again. He only knows because he happens to see her doing it in his peripheral. "Their Father attacked Edward, and your Teacher too, but the soldiers saved them both! I swear!"

Relief floods him, a tension that isn't exactly tension as he remembers it easing in him. It isn't relaxing, it isn't easing. It's like allowing himself to forget for a moment the enormous weight his small blood seal is carrying. He sinks back, ignoring the scrape and clatter of his pieces. "O-oh. Oh, thank goodness. _Thank_ you. Where are they now?"

"Two soldiers took your Teacher elsewhere for a few minutes. She's fighting again now, and she seems to be doing fine. Edward ran toward, ah, Central Command?"

"Yeah," he confirms automatically, wondering why Ed would run _away_ from the fight. It's not like Ed to run. Does he have a plan, maybe? Something he needs some distance for? Or a better angle? He can usually guess what Ed's thinking, but this is....

This doesn't make sense.

"I lost sight of him in the smoke." Mei hesitates, looking toward the western wing of Central Command that's still standing. "Alphonse, I'm sorry, but that's where I'm sensing Pride too."

It's an easy conclusion from there. "Oh, of course! Pride must have run from their fight, and Brother's making sure he doesn't get away!" Al's relieved laughter is nearly lost in another burst of firepower—literally, as the Colonel's taking point again, Lieutenant Hawkeye directing his attacks. Mei dips low as wind whips her braids wildly, her little hands white-knuckled on his sharp edges. The armor must be getting painfully hot with how close the Colonel's attacks have come. He desperately wishes he could get up and protect her, join in the fight again, something. But he's simply too broken now. 

It strikes him out of nowhere, how absurd everything's become. Barely a year ago his biggest concern had been getting his body and Ed's limbs back, and keeping a running list of tasty-sounding food to try once he could eat again. That all seems so long ago, now.

Mei stiffens, Xiao Mei snarling on her shoulder. "He's getting closer!"

Al doesn't have to ask who she means. Father hasn't moved from the center of the parade field, and Greed's made it clear which side of this fight he's on. "Get out of here! Before he sees you—"

Ed strides out of the thinning smoke, hands fisted at his sides and jaw stubbornly set, and the world makes sense again.

Al struggles to his elbows, wishing he could run, desperate to pull Ed into a brief but fervent hug. "Brother!"

"Look, he's _fine,"_ Ed drawls in a tone of voice that's distinctly _other_ in a way Al couldn't describe if pressed, yet all the same dread knocks the joy clean out of him even before ink-black shadows rise, serpentine, behind Ed. When Ed looks down at them his yellow eyes are empty tunnels. Then his face shifts, the shadows twitch, and Ed's rushing to his side. "Are you _crazy?_ He's not fine, he's in _pieces!_ Al, hey, are you—"

One of Mei's knives appears in Ed's left shoulder like a magic trick, its pink ribbon fluttering. 

"Get _away_ from him," she orders imperiously, on her feet with another three knives at the ready. Her face is a wax mask of pain, but her outstretched hand is steady.

Ed looks at her, not surprised but—resigned? He brings his right hand up to touch her knife, a _ting_ of metal against metal. Belatedly, he winces. "...Jeez, Mei. You didn't have to do that."

All wrong. This is all wrong. Ed wouldn't act like this—wouldn't _react_ like this. He'd holler hurt, curse up and down, insult Mei horribly. But he just stays kneeling, a curl of something like—like _shame_ to his mouth. "Ed...?"

Ed's face shifts again, his right hand dropping like dead weight. Ed _sneers._ "Are you really so oblivious?" He reaches left-handed for Mei's knife, yanking it out without a flicker of pain on his face. Al doesn't see so much as a drop of blood before red light heals the wound like it never existed. The unmistakable crackle of a transmutation, and _red_ light can only mean one thing. Another bizarre expression crawls across his face, settling on a far more familiar sneer. Ed's derision. Ed's disappointment. Ed's bitter laughter. "If this is a _win_ in your book then it's no _wonder_ your _Promised Day_ has turned out to be such a _shitshow."_

Ed's voice warps and warbles, gaining and losing an awful, malicious echo. Distantly, Al registers the familiar shapes of Teacher and Major Armstrong giving it their all against Father not so very far away. The outcome of today's battle seems, suddenly, wholly unimportant. "You...? Edward, you're—you're a _homunculus?"_

Ed's face softens as his hands hover over his armor. "Al _—Alphonse._ Hey. I'm sorry. I didn't—it wasn't like Ling, okay? Pride _forced_ his Stone into me. I couldn't—I _tried_ to fight him, but—" Ed takes a shivering breath, knocking his right hand's knuckles against the shrapnel of Al's chest. _Ting._ "Jeez. What even happened while we were down there?"

"He protected me," Mei pipes up, glaring fiercely.

Ed smiles. "Did he? I'm glad." He shivers again, shuttering his eyes. When he opens them again they've gone horribly flat, a mirror to Selim's cold cunning in all but the color, but his voice still sounds Ed-adjacent. "Can you _keep an eye on_ him for me, Mei? There's no _time_ to _fix him_ now."

"I'm not sure I'd let you try even if there were," she retorts. "Not with one of those monsters inside you!"

Another shift of Ed's face, and then thick shadows splash inside Al's broken chest like waves on a beach, skirting his blood seal. He feels the barest brush of tiny claws scratching at the metal around it. It's all he can do to keep from crying out. "Foolish girl," the monster possessing Ed spits. "Do you really think so little of Edward Elric? He's fought me every step of the way. I've had to take a firm hand with his soul to get this far."

Pride gestures. Mei gasps, failing to smother it behind her bloody hands. For a moment Al thinks Pride's hurt her, sunk his shadows into her skin beyond where he can easily see, but she's not bleeding or writhing or anything like that. She's just—staring, horrified, at Ed. Al strains for a better look and feels the _world_ stutter in terrible shock.

Ed has two legs again.

His left pant leg has been cut short, all the way up to his mid-thigh, and the entire leg is just... normal. There's a perfectly normal, flesh-and-bone leg where Al's become accustomed to seeing layered steel. There isn't even a trace of the thick scar tissue that's darkened Ed's thigh since his outfitting.

"He—he cut it off," Ed whispers. "To—stop me from—I mean, I—I kinda woke up, inside the—his Philosopher's Stone, or whatever, and he was.... I heard him and I looked out and he was... he'd killed—" Ed shudders again, gasping. Teeth split the black shadow curling at his knees, and Pride's voice echoes his. _"What did you do, Pride? What did you do to them?!"_

Al wants to grab hold of Ed, wants to shake sense and sanity into him again, but the shadows pooling inside his armor are circling even closer to his blood seal. Unbidden he finds himself thinking of stories he's read of sailors and pirates on the high seas, of shipwrecks and dark water and sleepless predators circling. He _knows_ that if he moves now they'll all regret it. "E-Edward."

Ed _snarls._ After a tense few seconds the shadows pull back. _"Sorry,_ sorry, I—I'm sorry." His exhale comes out loud and shaky as he drags his hands over his face. "I asked you a _question,_ Pride." 

A pause. 

"Are you lying? If you are, I swear I'll—" 

A pause. 

"What _about_ him? You think I'm gonna trust anything he says either?" 

A pause.

"Shut _up_ , stop laughing. They went where?"

A final pause, and then Ed sighs heavily, glancing at the hole in the parade field they'd all come out of. _"Fine_. I'm _holding_ you to that."

Did Greed and Ling ever speak like this? It's frightening, to see Ed clinging to control over his own body. Fresh explosions ring in his broken armor and Al forcibly puts his concerns aside. Ed's alive. That has to be enough, for now. "Pride?"

Ed twitches, his eyes going flat and cold. "What?"

"You—you could have killed Edward, but you didn't."

"Not for lack of trying."

How cruel. How indifferent. Al can't begin to understand this thing wearing his brother's face. He's not sure he even wants to try. "I don't think that's true. Promise me, please—"

Guttural screaming from shockingly nearby cuts him off. Dazzling red light fills his vision briefly; when it clears he catches sight of Teach and Major Armstrong again, scattered like autumn leaves. 

Ed swears, already on his feet and running off, and this time Al can't go chasing after him to make sure he doesn't do anything crazy. _"There's no time! Mei, take care of Al for me!"_

"Ed—! _Brother!"_

But Ed doesn't look back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that I really struggled with when I was first writing this. While I managed to "finish" it back then I was never satisfied with it, and time has only emphasized how out of character I forced Ed and Pride to push the plot along. I think I cleaned/edited things better this time around, but the edit I went with fucks with the rest of the deadfic in ways I'm sure I haven't yet considered. Ah well. Deadfic though this is it's always fun to try and wrestle some semblance of coherency out of a plot.

All Ed can hear is screaming—hundreds of souls all tangled together in a deafening, incomprehensible choir. He's got no idea how Ling dealt with this shit for so long without totally cracking up. Either he and Greed get along a lot better than it shows, or Ling was just that crazy from the start. Never mind. Now's not the time to theorize. He's gotta get in the fight. They have to stop Father now or not at all.

He claps, intending to transmute the cracked and scorched concrete into spikes aimed for that weird energy shield, but freezes at the first glimpse of alchemical discharge around his hands. _Red._ Right. Better to hold off transmuting until he figures out if there's a way to avoid using Pride's goddamn Stone. Instead he shakes his hands free of any tingling and closes the gap to hurl his automail fist at the shield as hard as he can. The impact nearly winds him, as it nearly does anytime he puts that much effort into through the automail around. It sure as hell feels like he did more damage to his arm than to the shield, but whatever. Better he pay out the nose for a new arm when they all survive this rather than risk using the Stone. Winry'll understand.

_[What are you doing?!]_

The razor edge of Pride's—self? awareness? what do you call the part of a homunculus that would be called a soul in a human?—batters at his mind like gale force winds. It's a headache and heartburn and something so much worse than either. He trips over his own feet, or maybe his feet trip over him? He's _not_ the swirl of shadow and gnashing teeth catching at his heels but it's still a part of him somehow. He doesn't know how the transference from Pride's Stone to outside his body happens but he can feel the ground beneath their shadow and he can feel the shadow pooling in his chest. He's got a fucking Philosopher's Stone grafted to his heart and a homunculus oozing around his cardiovascular system. No wonder Greed calls Pride a monster. The Ultimate Shield's a goddamn party trick compared to this.

He shakes his head, squinting through pain that's migraine-adjacent. Not now. He's got bigger things to worry about.

 _"Forcing you to pick a side!"_ He hollers, pummeling at the shield again and again, and once more for good measure. Some piece of his hand goes flying. Something grinds in his elbow; scarcely heard, felt through his port like an electric shock of warning. Too bad. He rears back and punches that scrabbling inch harder that really does wind him, at least for a moment.

_[You're insane!]_

Ed's grin is all teeth. Like he hasn't heard that one a hundred times before?

Teacher swings in startlingly close, bloodied but focused and furious and sprinting faster than he's ever seen her move. Blue light arcs between her hands, stone twisting like clay with a thought into a pair of swords. Ed has to push down a stupid twinge of jealousy at the display. Her eyes meet his as the light dies. "It's about time you showed up, Ed!"

Ed tries to warn her but Pride steals back control before he can do more than inhale. _"Not quite,"_ Pride calls out in an absurd, echoing sing-song. The shadow at his feet arcs out and _up,_ a jagged wing that _slams_ between the bristling shield and Teacher's blades before she can land a hit. She barely skids to a halt in time, spinning on her heel to gawk outrage at him. Ed feels his face twist in a crazed grin, then his vision goes stupid as even _more_ eyes fan out across the shadow.

She's gonna _kill_ him if they survive this.

Ed wrestles back enough control to stagger back, dragging the shadow like so much dead weight with him. "Damn it, don't _do_ that!"

Pride doesn't answer but most of the eyes wink out. He trips over his feet-shadow-something again as his own watering eyes struggle to focus while five _other_ eyes he can see through roam every which way but where _he's_ trying to look. He blinks and finds himself on his hands and knees with no memory of falling down. Eyes meet eyes and there's no his-versus-Pride's, it's just _their_ perspective. If he moves he will puke, and he has no idea if it'll be the meager breakfast he had at dawn or chunks of the soldiers Pride's shadows minced that'll come up. He _really_ doesn't want to find out.

Major Armstrong and Teacher are doing their utmost to beat through Father's shield. Reactionary light from their every attack stabs his vision, damningly red. He swallows, and swallows again. He's gotta get up. One of them's gotta get up. They're sitting ducks right now. If Father takes an opening he'll definitely try to take Pride's Stone again, and he has no idea what that'd do to him, and there's no way in hell he's gonna leave Al in a million pieces let alone still stuck to that stupid fucking suit of armor—

Greedling jumps in out of nowhere, throwing a carbon-coated punch that lands a neat blow not against the shield but against Father's suddenly raised forearm—and _sticks._ Ed thinks Hohenheim shouts something but can't make it out over the screaming in his head-heart-Stone. Instead he just kneels there, dumbstruck, as Greedling is almost literally _absorbed_ by Father and then subsequently knocked aside when Lan Fan leaps in to raise some hell. Something about that brief connection—conflict?—seems to have hurt Father in a way all the other attacks haven't yet, because right after that he curls in on himself like a dying spider with no sign of recreating that shield of his.

Pride hisses. _[Oh no.]_

Father _screams,_ a guttural and senseless bellow of pain that rings throughout the parade field. More red alchemical light lashes out of him, a blinding burst of humming energy that chews through their shadow before the backlash bowls Ed over. He musters half a scream before he's—they're—sent flying. He knows there's pain, more than the there-and-gone scrape and bruise of his body as it's rolled and dragged along bare concrete and sharp-edged rubble. He feels their shadow _burn_ in the light of this strange explosion. His skin burns too, maybe. His arm makes a splintered squeal that feels like a knitting needle's been jammed _deep_ into his port which means something crucial just broke. He hears the souls of who knows how many dead Xerxesians groaning and crying and screaming, and Pride's screaming too, and maybe that's Kimblee laughing? What about Major Armstrong? And Teacher? What about Al and Mei? Donkey Kong and Piggy? Lieutenant Hawkeye and Mustang? All those Briggs soldiers? He doesn't know if they're okay. For all these fucking eyes he's got now he can't _see._

Please, don't let it be only him that survives this. Please, don't let anybody else die because he fucked up.

* * *

His Stone, despite having been reduced to a handful of guttering embers, can still muster up the power to heal this body's broken ribs and myriad contusions. Edward has fled, intentionally or otherwise, into his Stone and so this body is his to do as he pleases for the moment, and for the particular moment he has no intention of doing anything more than staying prone and catching his breath. His true self had burned to ash in the wake of Father's startling loss of control, and so he's reduced to viewing the battlefield through this body's stinging eyes alone. He can't see. He doesn't know where Father's gone. He doesn't know who will attempt to attack Father next. He doesn't know if he has the speed or strength left in him to protect Father even if he did. 

Even if he did. Even if he did, it's clear to him now—Father is losing control.

Father is _losing._

Without the souls of all of Amestris to power his Stone and with all these living Amestrians doing their damnedest to wear him, Father's had no choice but to waste his own Stone on protecting his new body rather than make any progress toward regaining what power Van Hohenheim had dared steal from him.

How strange it is, to see how little it's taken to wear Father down to desperate measures.

Edward demanded he choose a side. Fight with Father, or against. What can he do? He _must_ choose, and now, before either side recovers. The meanest glimpse of the battlefield is enough to determine who the victor will inevitably be. Still, Pride is nothing if not cunning. He has spent centuries in the shadows, calculating odds, gambling on the corruption inherent in all mortal men. A glimpse is all he needs.

If Father wins this battle, killing or absorbing every last human soul, he's already shown his true colors. He'll take Pride's Stone to save his own skin, never mind centuries of loyalty. It wouldn't be a true death, but it would be a death of the self all the same.

If Father fails today, then Pride and Greed will be the last of the homunculi. They've survived this long solely thanks to the human bodies they've bound their Stones to. Greed, the humans might well deign to spare; he's been a coward and a turncoat since the day Father excised him. But him? Pride has been nothing but faithful. If Father fails today then so too will Pride. If he runs then the humans will hunt him down purely for Edward's sake. They'll kill him truly, burn him out of this flesh as Edward has tried to do already. They've already killed most of his siblings. True deaths. Final deaths.

What kind of choice is he left with?

When the dust settles and Pride's Stone has finished healing Edward's body, Pride dares to grow tendrils of himself again. He strains in every direction, disoriented and unwilling to trust this body's senses any more than he must. His nose finds Father before his eyes, and when his eyes hone in on the still-strange shape he stills. Father is staring right at him. Not at Edward's body but at _him._ Father knows, somehow, that he's taken Edward's body for his own, and knows too that he would benefit from killing them both. He watches Father lurch toward them, black smoke dribbling from his slack mouth. Not smoke. _Himself._ He's clinging to control of God's power, and he's slipping.

 _"A Stone!"_ Father groans, wide-eyed and staggering. _"A Stone! A Philosopher's Stone!"_

He's become a shadow of himself; a pitiable shell of a god, hollowed out and scoured raw. Pride stares, unable to discern whether this turmoil knotting his new organs is pity or disdain.

"Edward!" Van Hohenheim shouts across some great distance. "Get out! Now!"

Easy enough for the old fool to say. He's not the one Father's after anymore. 

He feels the rebar pierced neatly through their left arm, his Stone healing the wound just so it can open again with his every twitch. It hurts. It _hurts._ His Selim container could feel echoes of sensations, enough to cheat convincingly, and human adults always made presumptions when it came to children's feelings anyway. This body has startled him with its capacity for pain at every turn. Even with the rest of its injuries healed he feels—echoes. Phantom sensations. Nerves throbbing with the memory of hurt. His skin itches; from sweat and dirt, yes, but from something more than that too. Their lungs are strong, their ribs healed, and still Pride chooses to sit where the crooked rebar has pinned their arm. He shies away from further pain even as their cardiovascular system throbs concern. 

He hears Alphonse Elric shout, though the boy's shrill voice is snatched away on a gust of wind. He hears panic, not the individual words. Whatever he's saying hardly matters. It's some familial concern, as if one explosion could possibly be enough to kill Edward anymore. Disregard the other boy; he'll only matter if they survive this damned day.

Pride shifts, wincing when he feels the rebar tug in their arm. Their automail arm is limp at their side. Not in pieces, but broken enough that even the minute responses he's managed before this would be a welcome change of pace. He doubts Edward would have much better luck manipulating it. At a glance he sees less a mechanical prosthetic and more an arm-shaped heap of scrap metal. He feels too, Edward stirring in his Stone, consciousness not so much fumbled for as bullied. He concedes control mostly so to avoid this strange burning-tingling sensation in their shoulder.

Edward groans, shaking their head and blinking rapidly, squinting further when Pride inches out a coil of shadow to gain a better angle on the state of the automail. Edward seems sluggish, disoriented, and so Pride ignores him for the few seconds he can spare. The arm is what's important. If Edward—if they—are to fight Father, then Greed has already proven how dangerous direct physical contact is. The automail seems exempt from that and Edward has proven infuriatingly reluctant to transmute anything at the risk of their Stone. The arm's their one sure weapon, and it's so much limp metal grafted to their shoulder now. 

Edward shifts, trying to force the arm to cooperate. The shoulder twitches, and creaks for its effort. The sound it makes is strangely muted; a dulled _clunk_ that nevertheless seems startlingly loud in the silence after Father's inadvertent explosion. The fingers attempt a fist well enough and the shoulder hunches when he tells it to do so, but everything in-between remains frustratingly, terrifyingly inert. 

Pride peels himself off the ground, curling serpentine to better direct his glare. _"How did it break?!"_ He demands through a mouth in his shadow alone despite knowing the answer. Steel alloys are strong, but Father has dragged God Himself down from his lofty perch; even his defenses are sturdy enough to tear metal asunder. Never mind the how, they're running out of time. He has three eyes watching Father's approach. He wishes it were more, too used to working with and from a dozen different angles at a minimum, but for the sake of urgency he's conceding to this body's infuriating nausea and minimizing where he can. As if the boy will ever thank him.

Edward's physical eyes are riveted on Father too. "Rebound off his little meltdown," he says, matter of fact. "I'm surprised the whole thing didn't shatter."

Down an arm then, and Father's only yards away. _"Get up! Run!"_

Edward proves how insane he is once more by _laughing,_ then jerking hard on their left arm. Red light crackles, hair raising along their skin. "Can't."

_"My Stone can heal that easily. Get up!"_

Edward does try, in his insipid, human flailing way. All he earns them is a hot rush of pain that leaves even their shadow gasping for breath. Metal scraping against bone is a uniquely awful experience Pride dearly wishes he had no context for, but here he is and here they are, and Father has now lurched _that_ much closer. Pride spasms, growing teeth. _"We don't have time for this. I'll cut the automail off—"_

**_"Don't you dare."_ **

Alphonse is still screaming, high and desperate, but the words aren't worth attending to. Pride sinks some, eyes on Father who is so, so close. Still croaking his desperation for another Stone. There's no trace of the cunning creature he's deferred to all these years. This thing is scrabbling and stupid. This thing is shameful. He averts their eyes, focusing wholly on Edward. _"We'll die otherwise,"_ he says.

Edward, stubborn as he is, grits his teeth and yanks on his left arm harder. Pain lances through the port and deep into their chest. They gasp equally, fingers and toes curling. "You do that, I'll hand us over to him," he says.

Pride gawks. They're running out of time but he has no choice _but_ to gawk. _"You wouldn't."_

As answer Edward only throws him a crooked grin. _Try me._

Fuck.

Fucking goddamn motherfucking _shit._

Kimblee laughs. It's good to know _somebody's_ enjoying all of this.

 _"Don't fight me this time!"_ Pride takes control before Edward can waste time with stupid questions. He grits their teeth, tensing despite knowing tension will make this all the more painful. _Coward,_ Kimblee called him. That inaccuracy, his derision, _chafes._ Pride has no capacity for fear. He is, and has always been, pragmatic above all else. He tenses and strains and _rips_ their left arm free. Steel dragged against bone and muscle and veins that scarcely bleed before healing perfectly. In his head-Stone Edward _screams;_ he ignores it and _runs._

Father must die today. This is a fact that chafes despite its logic. Centuries of loyalty—well. It's only right that it chafes now. But Pride is a pragmatic creature, and Edward has always put Alphonse's safety above his own. They can at least agree that dying now would be an infuriating waste of time. Father must die, and here Pride must aid that sentence. Fine. Fine. It's only fair. One good turn deserves another, doesn't it?

He'll worry himself with what might come after if they make it that far. Until then, it's time to take the offensive.


End file.
